Klara slowly knelt beside Seth, gently placing her hand over his. She didn’t say much. Just a whisper.

“We’ll help them,” she said softly. “We have to.”

Siegfried stood a few paces back, his face composed, but his fingers twitched at his side. His gaze never left the bodies in the dirt.

And the silence of the camp settled over them once more, heavy as stone. Not a single soul cried. No wails. No sobs. Just the soft hiss of smoke, the quiet scuffle of dying feet, and the slow mourning of a forgotten people.

That night, they gathered around a small fire near the edge of the camp. The flames hissed softly as they licked at the logs, casting a flickering orange glow that couldn't quite banish the chill. The night air was dry, filled with smoke and the distant, sorrowful cries of jungle birds. Above them, the stars shimmered in a silent, ancient watch—uncaring or perhaps simply helpless.

Bhima sat opposite them, cross-legged and still, his silhouette jagged with the scars that marked a life of war and loss. His eyes reflected the firelight, but they didn’t seem to see the present. They were fixed on something long buried.

“There was a time,” Bhima began, his voice low, “when Chandrapura thrived. We weren’t perfect. But we were proud.”

He paused, letting the words settle.

“Humans and Felinari lived side by side. Not always in harmony—but with respect. A bond carved by time and trial. Our temples echoed with chants, our hills danced with the voices of festivals. The rivers ran clean, the forests whispered stories to the wind. That world…” he exhaled, shaking his head. “That world is gone now.”

He turned his gaze to Star, eyes sharp, haunted. “Do you know what it feels like to watch your kingdom rot from the inside?”

Star didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

“King Vishva,” Bhima said slowly, “was once a nobleman. A philosopher-king. He studied the ancient texts, wrote treatises on unity, and on the soul’s journey through lifetimes. He was beloved by both Human and Felinari. He was… good.”

Klara frowned, leaning in slightly. “So what happened to him?”

“Zepar,” Bhima said, as if spitting the name like venom. “A demon. One of Nibelung’s generals.”

Klara’s eyes narrowed. “Zepar… one of the Seven Sages of Destruction?”

Bhima nodded grimly. “The Whisperer. The one who corrupts from within. He came to Vishva not in the form of a beast, but as a scholar. A friend. He whispered of destiny, of immortality. Of a kingdom that would rise above the chaos of the world. Strength. Eternity. Unity.”

“He didn’t need chains,” Erik said bitterly, his voice low. “Just words.”

Bhima glanced at him. “You were there.”

Erik nodded. Slowly. “I watched him change. The first decrees. The temples closed. The ‘registration orders’ for Felinari. Then the raids.”

Seth's hands tightened around his bow. “They took our names,” he whispered. “Burned them from the census. From history. From the stones on our ancestors’ graves.”

He looked down at the fire, watching the embers curl into ash.

“Over decades—centuries even—Zepar hollowed him out. Slowly. Like rot in a tree. One day we woke up, and the man we knew was gone. What remained wore his crown… but it was a puppet. A mask.”

Seth shivered, pulling his knees to his chest. Erik didn’t move, but his tail flicked once with slow, dangerous tension.

“Then came the Riftwalkers,” Bhima continued, bitterness hardening his voice. “From the stars, or so they claimed. They came not as conquerors, but saviors. With silver tongues and machines that defied logic. Ships that blotted out the sun. Metal beasts that roared like thunder. They promised peace. Aid. Progress.”

“They lied,” Erik muttered, voice low and sharp.

“Yes,” Bhima said. “They studied us like ants. They called us primitive. They saw our elemental arts as curiosities—nothing more. And when we resisted their terms… they showed us their real faces.”

He gestured vaguely toward the camp behind them.

“They enslaved entire villages overnight. Burned our temples. Rewrote our histories. Felinari were the first to suffer, marked as ‘unclean’ by Riftwalker decrees. Our language was banned. Cultural rituals criminalized. Names erased. We were herded into ‘labor centers.’ Others… weren’t so lucky.”

Klara had gone pale, her catalyst flickering with weak light.

“They had weapons,” Bhima continued. “We’d never seen anything like them. Cannons that turned entire hills to dust. Drones that tracked your heartbeat. Fields of energy that canceled out our elements. You’d try to conjure a storm—only to find the wind had been silenced.”

Siegfried clenched his jaw, eyes flicking toward Star.

“And Vishva,” Bhima added bitterly, “welcomed them. Or… Zepar did. Through him. The Riftwalkers became ‘advisors’ to the throne. They installed governors. Replaced our councils. Built factories where once there were schools. Vishva’s palace became a black tower. We don’t even know what’s inside anymore.”

Erik stared into the fire, jaw clenched. “And the people let it happen…”

“They were afraid,” Bhima said. “And tired. And tricked. And eventually… broken.”

No one spoke.

The fire popped, casting long shadows against the trees.

Bhima looked up at the sky, his voice softer now. “But before the Riftwalkers came… we saw a sign.”

He stood slowly, his back straight despite the weight on his shoulders.

“A terrible sign. The elders called it The Fallen Star. It streaked across the sky the night their ships arrived. A light burning in the heavens, trailing smoke. It fell near Pratishthana Mountain. Some say it was a weapon. Others believe it was a warning.”

He looked at Star.

“Some… say it was a soul.”

She met his gaze.

“What do you think it was?” she asked.

Bhima paused, staring into the dark jungle.

“I think it was the moment everything changed. A wound in the sky. And we’ve been bleeding ever since.”

They hiked to a nearby cliff that overlooked a broken stretch of land near the distant Pratishthana Mountain. The earth below was scorched, trees twisted and blackened as though the land had been struck by divine lightning.

“There,” Bhima said, pointing.

Siegfried asked. “Is that a crater?”

“Yes,” Bhima replied. “We call it the Fallen Star.”

Star stared at the unnatural circle. It pulsed faintly with an eerie glow, even from this distance.

“When the Riftwalkers arrived, a flaming object tore through the sky. It crashed here. Some believed it was a meteor. But I saw it. I saw the sky rip open. Heard the hum. Like the world was being rewritten.”

Star’s eyes widened.

Klara leaned forward, her voice barely a whisper. “That’s not just some rock… is it?”

Bhima said nothing. The silence was his answer.

Star clenched her fists.

“We’ll go there,” she said.

Bhima met her gaze. “You’ll find more than rock and ash.”

“I know.”

As the group began to turn back, something stirred in the jungle behind them. Leaves rustled, unnaturally slow. A chill swept across the clearing. Unseen eyes watched from the dark.

But for now… no one noticed.

The mourning earth kept its silence.